“Brady! Brady!”

I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, yelling like I do every morning. We really need to get a better system in order.

“Kid, hurry, if we’re late again your principal’s going to rip me a new one.”

“Rip you a new what, Dad?”

“Never mind, hurry. What do you want for breakfast?”

“How about some cereal?”

“Good choice,” I say, pouring him a bowl of bran flakes.

“Not those ones, dad.”

“Which ones?”

“Those,” he says, pointing at some colorful box in the cupboard.

“Those are nothing but sugar.”

“I like those ones.”

I sigh and glance at my watch. I don’t have time to argue with him. I swear his principal has it in for me already. I don’t think she believes a father can look after a kid alone. Sometimes I wonder if she’s right.

I pour Brady the sugary cereal and fill the bowl with milk.

“Eat fast. We don’t want to get in trouble.”

He grabs a spoon and starts munching immediately. I sit down across the counter from him and take a sip from my coffee.

“What have you got planned today, dad?”

I smile. “Just the usual. We’re closing a big deal. Then I’ve got a few client meetings. Hopefully I’ll make it to the gym for a quick workout.”

“Gotta build those muscles!”

I laugh. “Yeah. What about you, kid?”

“Oh, the usual. Go to school. Play with my friends.”

“You’ve got soccer after school today, right?”

“Yeah. Billy’s mom’s taking us.”

“And I’ll pick you both up. Maybe we can go out for some ice cream afterwards. Check with Billy’s mom to see if that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Brady says, punching the air in triumph.

“Now, let’s get a move on, kid.”

We both hurry down the hall and throw on our shoes and jackets. Brady grabs his backpack and I grab my briefcase. He runs ahead of me to push the button for the elevator. A few minutes later and we’re pulling up to the drop off point outside his school. We’re three minutes late, which is an improvement but still not good enough.

“You hurry inside, okay,” I say, giving him a kiss and straightening out his collar.

“I will, dad.”

“And tell your teacher I’m sorry you’re late.”

He hops out of the car and already I see Mrs. Mayfair coming down the steps of the school toward me.

“Have a good day,” I say to Brady and start pulling out of my parking spot, but right as I’m about to leave, a Fedex truck parks in front of me, blocking me in.

“Mr. Eastwood,” I hear Mrs. Mayfair’s voice calling.

I let out a sigh and put the car back into park.

“Oh, Mrs. Mayfair, I didn’t see you there.”

“You saw me,” she says, unperturbed. “Now, this really will not do, Mr. Eastwood. You’re late again.”

“We’re trying really hard, Mrs. Mayfair. And we’re getting better.”

“You’ll need to do as well as the other mothers and get here on time.”

“Other mothers?” I say.

“You know what I mean, Mr. Eastwood. I’m all for modern family arrangements but if you’re going to take on the role traditionally reserved for mothers, you can at least try to do a good job of it.”

I think of all the things I can say to fight back but I know it’s no good. She’s right. If I insist I can raise Brady alone, then I better nail it.

“You’re right, Mrs. Mayfair.”

“Either get Brady to school on time, or get a woman in your life who will.”

“Maybe I do need a wife,” I say, giving Mrs. Mayfair a sly wink.

She’s old enough to be my mother but she’s by no means unattractive. Not that I’d ever consider fooling around with her, I couldn’t put Brady in that position.

Mrs. Mayfair looks at me then looks away, blushing.

“Oh, stop, Mr. Eastwood.”

“Please, call me Wes.”

“I’ll do no such thing, Mr. Eastwood.”

“What do you think? Do I need a wife to help me get Brady to school on time?”

“What you need, apart from some manners, is a nanny, Mr. Eastwood.”

I’m looking at her as she says that and all of a sudden it’s like a lightbulb goes on in my head. Why have I been resisting this so hard? I was always so adamant that Brady and I could get by alone, without the help of a woman, but why was I being so stubborn? Getting a nanny was so obvious! So easy!

“A nanny?”

“Why not? Even the families with two parents are hiring nannies these days.”

“And they don’t have any trouble getting their kids to school on time?”

“Of course they don’t. It’s hardly rocket science, Mr. Eastwood.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say to her. “Any idea where I’d go about finding one?”

“There are services. Just look them up and they’ll get you a nanny in no time.”

I thank her and for the millionth time, promise Brady won’t ever be late for school again, and drive off.

My phone rings as I make my way through the Park Avenue traffic. It’s Lucy.

“Wes?”

“Yes, I’m almost at the office. What is it?”

“Two things, sir.”

“Well let me have them, Lucy.”

“First thing is we’ve been outbid again on Dairy Technics.”

“By Clint?”

“Who else?”

“Looks like we’re getting a real bidding war on our hands. But that’s nothing to get worried over, we’ll just up our bid again right before the auction closes later today. When’s it closing?”

“Three PM, sir.”

“Fine. Notify me ten minutes before and I’ll put in a bid no one can beat.”

“Yes, sir, but that’s not the only thing.”

There’s an apprehension in her voice that gives me pause. It’s really not like her to lose her cool.

“What else?” I say, pulling up outside my building.

“The other thing is a legal matter.”

“Well pass it over to the lawyers. I don’t have time for that stuff.”

“It’s not business legal, Wes. It’s personal.”

“Personal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is it. Don’t tell me it’s all those parking tickets. I was going to take care of those next week.”

“It’s not your parking tickets, sir.”

“Is it a woman?” I say, racking my head to think of any woman I might have pissed off lately.

I really couldn’t think of any, but when you’re a billionaire, every date is a potential law suit.

“It’s Child Protective Services, Wes.”

I jam on the brakes.

“What?”

“Child Protective Services.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. Speaking as a single father, Child Protective Services is pretty much my worst nightmare. I’d give my life for my kid, and I look after him better than anyone else could ever look after him, but even with all my wealth, I’ve always felt vulnerable to criticism when it came to raising my son. Not having a woman in the house always made me worry about his wellbeing.

“What are they doing here?” I say, getting out of my car and throwing the keys to the valet.

“They want to speak to you, Wes.”

“I’m in the building. I’ll be right there.”

I hang up and practically run to the elevator. It feels like an eternity for it to arrive, and when I’m inside it, it’s like every second that passes has slowed down. Come on, come on, I think to myself as it rises.

When it finally arrives I’m practically hyperventilating.

“What’s going on?” I say to the receptionist as I hurry past.

She just shakes her head and nods to my office.

I step in and am greeted by Lucy and three uniformed city workers. One’s a cop and the other two have patches on their chest that say Child Protective Services in bright yellow print.

I stare at the four of them, dumbstruck.

“Wes Eastwood?” the police officer says.

“Yes.”

He hands me a legal document. “You’ve been served.”

I look at him and then at the Child Protective Services officers. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

“Mr. Eastwood,” one of the CPS officers says, “the city has concerns about the wellbeing of your son, Brady Eastwood, and he’s being removed from your custody for emergency intervention.”

“Emergency intervention?”

“To protect him.”

“Protect him? From who?” I stammer.

I feel as if the ceiling of the room is pushing down on me. I can’t breathe. I can hardly keep my balance.

“Wes,” Lucy says, shaking her head, trying to get me to calm down.

I can feel my temper rising and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I let my voice grow louder as I speak.

“Protection from who?” I demand.

“From you, Mr. Eastwood,” the CPS officer says.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I feel as if I’m falling through the window, down past the hundred stories, toward the concrete street beneath.